Don't Let the Door Hit You on the Way Out
by Nini Black
Summary: Kurt just walked into a door. Really. Why won't anyone believe him? Kurt/Blaine, ensemble


**Title:** Don't Let the Door Hit You on the Way Out  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Spoilers:** Set after A Very Glee Christmas  
**Pairings:** Kurt/Blaine  
**Word Count:** 4,300

**Summary:** Kurt just walked into a door. Really. Why won't anyone believe him?

**Notes:** Set at some point in the future, where Kurt and Blaine are dating and Kurt's transferred back to McKinley. Written for a prompt on the glee fluff meme (http:/ community. livejournal. com/ glee_fluff_meme/ ? thread=4065040#t4065040). Thanks to pyroclastic for the beta.

* * *

Kurt didn't even see it coming.

One moment he was running late for homeroom, hurrying through the pretty much empty hallways, and the next he was sitting on the floor, leaning against the lockers on the opposite side of the hall and looking up at his Freshman math teacher, Mrs. Shrout.

"Kurt?" she asked, crouching down in front of him.

Kurt looked past her to where a tall boy he didn't know was shifting from foot to foot. "Sorry," the boy offered.

Kurt just blinked at them. He was having trouble thinking past the pain in his head, most of which seemed to be centered on his right cheek and temple. His eyes weren't cooperating either; everything looked blurred around the edges. "Wha…" he tried to ask.

"You walked into the door," Mrs. Shrout told him. "Well, more like the door hit you."

"I didn't know he was there, honest," the boy protested.

"You shouldn't be flinging doors open like that," Mrs. Shrout admonished, looking over her shoulder at the boy. She turned back to Kurt. "Can you get up?"

She reached out to grab Kurt's arm and help him to his feet. The movement made Kurt's head hurt even more, which he found surprising because it was already _killing_ him. Once Mrs. Shrout had pulled him to feet, he stumbled forward and fell against her again.

"What happened?" he finally managed to ask.

"Jeremy swung the door open at just the right time to smack you upside the head with it," she explained.

"Door?" Kurt asked.

Mrs. Shrout nodded. "Yes, you walked into it." She tried to get him standing back up, holding onto his shoulders to steady him. It didn't really help.

"Come on, let's get you to the nurse. Jeremy, grab his arm."

The nurse let him lay down, which helped with the spinning of the room a bit. Kurt closed his eyes and held the ice pack she'd given him to the side of his head. With his eyes closed, it felt like the little cot he was on was rocking back and forth, swaying like a hammock. He opened his eyes again, staring at a brown stain on the ceiling tile. The cot kept spinning.

After the bell signaling the end of homeroom rang—the noise seemed to echo in his head, making Kurt want to curl up and _die_—the nurse was back, helping him sit up. "Do you think you can go back to class now?" she asked.

Kurt answered by puking on her shoes.

* * *

Kurt didn't remember the ride to the hospital. His dad kept an arm around his shoulders to guide him and Kurt was grateful for it because it kept him from falling. After several hours of cradling his head in his hands, nearly in tears at the bright hospital lights and loud noises around him, Kurt was diagnosed with a mild concussion, given some pain meds and a stack of papers entitled "How to Care for Your Concussion", and sent on his way.

They'd given him a shot at the hospital, and it was still working enough to allow him to think straight for the first time since he'd walked into the door. His dad was opening the car door and helping him stand up when Kurt said, "Don't tell Finn."

"What?" his dad asked.

"Don't tell Finn I walked into a door," Kurt repeated. It was just too embarrassing. If his step-brother found out then _all_ his friends would find out and Kurt would never live it down. "Please, Dad."

Burt shook his head, but agreed not to tell Finn. "You can come up with a story for him," he told Kurt as he got him situated on the couch with a pillow and blanket.

Kurt nodded a bit, curling towards the back of the couch and tugging the blanket up over his shoulders. The couch smelled familiar and warm and Kurt burrowed down into it, blocking out the light from the room.

* * *

It felt like no time at all had passed before his dad was waking him and placing a new ice pack against his face. "You're gonna have quite a bruise," he said.

Kurt grimaced. Great, just what he needed. Bruises were so hard to color coordinate around…

He slept on and off throughout the rest of the day, only registering Finn coming home from school because he loudly called out "I'm home!" and stomped into the living room.

"What happened to you?" Finn asked. "Someone said you were drunk again."

Kurt pushed himself into a sitting position. "I wasn't _drunk_—" he started, but Finn cut him off.

"Dude," he drawled. "What happened to your _face_?"

Kurt reached up and poked at the side of his face gingerly. It still ached horribly, and made talking seem like the worst idea ever. Pain flared when his finger made contact with his cheek. "Nothing happened."

Finn raised his eyebrows. "Yeah right. You look like someone beat you up. Wait, who beat you up? Was it Karofsky? Azimio?"

"No, it wasn't—"

"I i_knew/i_ we should've done that guard thing Puck wanted when you came back," Finn continued. He looked stricken. "I'm sorry, Kurt," he said, sitting down on the recliner and leaning towards Kurt with an expression similar to the one he'd worn the entire week before Kurt has first switched schools.

"Nothing happened, Finn. Really," Kurt insisted. "I'm fine."

Finn just looked at him sadly, before gathering his resolve. "Don't worry, I'll talk to the other guys and we can form a perimeter around you at school so no one can beat you up anymore. They won't be able to touch you again." He stood up, patting Kurt's shoulder, and turned towards the stairs, already digging his cell phone out to call in cavalry.

Kurt stared after him. Well, that hadn't gone quite as well as he'd hoped.

* * *

His dad kept him home for the recommended forty-eight hours, watching him like a hawk the whole time. When Kurt finally made it back to school after missing three days of class, the rumor mill was abuzz with news of his demise.

On the plus side, he no longer had an awful headache and he still had enough pain pills to help with the constant, dull ache from his bruise.

Mercedes found him at his locker. "Oh my god, Kurt. What happened to your face?"

"You mean it doesn't match my shirt?" he asked. It'd taken a long time to find this purply-blue paisley print shirt in the back of his closet. Paired with a grey sweater, the ensemble matched his bruise well enough that Kurt could almost pretend the entire effect was intentional.

Mercedes frowned. "It does, actually, but that doesn't explain why you look like someone used you for target practice."

"I'm fine, Mercedes," Kurt insisted. "Nothing happened. No one beat me up. Can we please drop it?"

She was still frowning at him, and Kurt recognized from the look on her face that she was _not_ done asking him questions about this. Luckily, she relented for now and started telling him about Santana's Rachel-Berry-worthy storm out from glee yesterday after Mr. Schue had tried to give the solo on She Wolf to Rachel.

* * *

During English, Kurt's teacher pulled him aside to ask very solemnly if everything was okay at home and to offer her support. Kurt stared at her for a minute, uncomprehending. When he finally realized that she was trying to ask if his _dad_ had hit him, Kurt blanched.

"Everything's great. My dad would never hurt me. Or anyone else," he added, lest she decide to ask Finn about it. "Nothing happened, honest. I was just being stupid."

She didn't look like she believed him. Worse, Tina, sitting a few feet away and making no attempt to hide her eavesdropping, was staring at him in wide-eyed concern.

* * *

Lunch period was an adventure in avoidance. Kurt pretended not to have heard Rachel's demand about what Karofsky had done _now_ and told Artie he should really see the other guy before feeling bad for Kurt. That was a perfectly valid thing to say; Kurt looked much better than a three-inch-thick wooden door even on his worst hair day.

Brittany stopped on her way past them to her usual spot with the Cheerios. "Oh no!" she exclaimed, pulling a chair up next to Kurt. "What happened?"

His eyes widened in surprise at her concern, followed by a wince when the movement pulled at the skin around his eye. "Did Mr. Biggles get you too?" Brittany asked.

"Did… what?" Kurt asked. Mr. Biggles was the sophomore science teacher's class pet, a rather large white rabbit that was allowed to roam around the room and left droppings everywhere.

"I tried to hug him last week and he thumped me on the chest," Brittany explained. She began to lift her top to show him, but Kurt grabbed her wrist to stop her. "He's not very nice."

"It wasn't Mr. Biggles," Kurt told her.

"Are you sure? Your bruise is shaped just like his foot."

"I'm sure."

Brittany didn't look like she believed him, but that was no different than anyone else.

* * *

Kurt was so sick of fielding questions from his well-intentioned friends that he debated skipping glee. With the way his luck seemed to go, however, today would probably be the day that Mr. Schue decided to give him a solo and skipping would mean that Rachel got to claim it instead. He was still late because he'd spent ten minutes in the bathroom, trying to apply cover-up to the bruise. It only made it look more noticeable.

All conversation stopped when he walked in, a sure sign that they'd been talking about him. Kurt scowled as he made his way towards a seat in the back of the room.

Rachel cleared her throat, which was apparently Mr. Schue's sign to say something. "Kurt, is everything alright?"

"Everything's fine," Kurt said, crossing his arms. "What song are we working on today?"

Mr. Schue hesitated.

"He means your face, dude," Puck said.

Kurt turned towards him. "Nothing's wrong with my face. That's very rude, even for you, Puck."

Puck rolled his eyes. "Whatever. Look, not that I really _care_ or anything, but you shouldn't let your boyfriend hit you just 'cos you're both dudes. That's messed up."

"_Blaine_ hit you?" Finn demanded, turning around in his seat to stare up at Kurt. "I thought you said it was Karofsky?"

"No one hit me!"

Mercedes was weaving her way through the chairs towards him. "Why didn't you tell me, baby?"

"Did you hit him back?" Santana asked, leaning forward.

Brittany looked appalled. "You can't hit a rabbit, San."

Once Tina piped up with, "I thought it was your _dad_ that hit you!" earning an incredulous "What?" from Finn, Kurt could only sit and watch as the room descended into chaos. Everyone had a different theory for how he'd wound up looking a domestic abuse victim and what should be done about it, and they were all determined to voice them all at once.

Finally, Kurt couldn't take it anymore. "Shut up!" he screamed. "Everyone just Shut. Up."

Amazingly enough, they did. Kurt was standing now, fists clenched at his sides, breathing heavily. He glared at all of them. "_No one_ hit me. Not Karofsky. Not Blaine. _Definitely_ not my dad. And not a freaking _rabbit_. _No one._"

"Then how'd you get hurt?" Mercedes asked.

Kurt closed his eyes and took a deep breath before opening them again. "I walked into a door."

There was a silence for nearly a full minute, before Puck scoffed, "Yeah right."

"It's the truth," Kurt insisted. "I was walking down the hall and some guy just swung the door right into the side of my face."

"That's what all battered women say, Kurt," Rachel pointed out.

"_Oh my god_, I am not a battered woman!"

Rachel wasn't the only one who looked skeptical.

"I had a concussion and had to go to the emergency room. I didn't tell you because this is _embarrassing_."

Quinn had stepped forward and taken hold of his hand. "Kurt, it's okay to tell us what's really going on. We're all your friends, and we want to help you."

Kurt tilted his head back to mouth "oh my god" at the ceiling before pulling away from her and stomping down the risers. Once he got to the door, he turned back to the room. "All of you, wait here," he told them, pointing.

Kurt spun on his heel and stomped off towards the Freshman hallway. He only remembered the kid who had hit him with the door, Jeremy, as a tall, blurry blob, but he was fairly sure he had been a Freshman. Kurt poked his head into each of the classrooms he passed, ignoring the startled questions from teachers and squinting at the students, until finally one of them looked familiar. "You," he said, pointing to the boy. "Come with me."

The boy squeaked out, "Me?"

Kurt nodded. "Yes."

Jeremy followed him into the hallway, confused. "Do I know you?"

"Imagine me without the bruise."

"Oh! The dude I hit with the door." Jeremy suddenly looked apologetic. "Sorry about that."

Kurt waved him off. "It was an accident. I just need you to explain that to my friends." He was already leading the way back to the choir room. Jeremy hurrying along behind him.

When he got back to the choir room, everyone was still discussing his denial about being a victim. Kurt shoved Jeremy towards the front of the room. "This," he said loudly, "is the boy who hit me with a door."

Jeremy gave them all a small wave. "Uh, hi."

"Kurt, you don't need to get random freshmen to lie for you as well," Rachel said.

"That's just kind of desperate," Santana added.

"I, um, really did hit him with a door," Jeremy said. "I didn't mean to though. It was an accident."

Kurt crossed his arms, grinning in satisfaction and ignoring the pain caused by the expression.

"You _seriously_ walked into a door?" Mercedes asked.

Kurt nodded. "Yes."

"And that's why you had a concussion?" Finn asked.

Kurt nodded again.

"Dude," Puck said, laughing. "That's pathetic." Quinn reached over and smacked his arm but it had no effect on Puck's laughter.

Kurt glared at him. "So actually walking into a door is more pathetic than getting beat up by my boyfriend?"

Puck just nodded, still chuckling.

"Why didn't you just tell us?" Mercedes asked.

"Because it was _embarrassing_." Kurt pouted. "And you didn't believe even once I did tell you the truth."

"Yeah, but you've been lying to us about it all day," she pointed out.

Kurt sighed. Mr. Schue finally stepped forward before he could try and say anything else. "Guys, I think we've established that Kurt really did just hurt himself in an accident, so let's move on and focus on our set list for the rest of today, alright?"

They agreed, reluctantly, and Kurt went back to his seat as Jeremy made his escape.

* * *

That evening, Kurt had a Skype date scheduled with Blaine. As he fixed his hair for the fifth time and poked at his bruise again, he thought about how much he missed living in the same dorm as his boyfriend and getting to see him every day. Seeing him on a computer screen or talking on the phone just wasn't the same as eating lunch and dinner together all the time.

The incoming call finally popped up with a _ding_.

"Hi," Kurt greeted happily.

"Hey Kurt," Blaine said, smiling and waving at him. The smiled dropped off his face a moment later. "Oh my god, what happened to you?"

Kurt sighed. "Nothing, honest."

"You've got a bruise the size of Texas on your face!"

"It's not that big," Kurt said, examining it in the small video of himself. He moused over one of the camera controls to turn the video into black and white. He'd always thought that he'd look fantastic in a film noir.

Blaine frowned at him. "Now it just looks black instead of purple. What happened?"

"I told you, nothing happened."

Blaine raised an eyebrow. "Did someone hit you? Was it Karofsky?"

"_No_, no one hit me. Though Puck thought _you_ did."

"What?" Blaine asked, confused.

"It was this huge misunderstanding at school today. Finn thought that Karofksy had hit me and Tina thought that my dad had hit me and then Puck thought that _you_ had hit me and Rachel was calling me a battered woman when really, I just walked into a door."

Blaine was quiet for a moment. Finally he said, "You walked into a door?"

"Yes," Kurt said, looking down. This really had to be one of the most embarrassing things that had happened to him. He almost wished he had gotten into a fight, if just because it would've made for a better story.

"Was it a particularly large door?" Blaine asked.

Kurt looked back up, narrowing his eyes. "You don't believe me."

"I didn't say that."

"You might as well have."

Blaine sighed. "C'mon Kurt, what am I meant to think? One side of your face is black and blue and you're saying you walked into a door? That's an awful excuse. That's what people say when they're covering up for someone beating them."

"I'm not covering for anyone. I really did walk into a door. Some Freshman swung it open right as I walked past and gave me a concussion."

"You really expect me to believe that?"

"I expect my boyfriend to believe me when I'm telling him the truth, yeah. I already had to drag the guy who hit me in to explain the whole thing to everyone in glee. Do I need to go find where he lives so he can tell you as well or are you going to believe me?"

Blaine looked away for a moment. "Sorry," he said. "I didn't mean it like that."

"I don't know how else you meant that."

"I was just worried."

Kurt crossed his arms on the desk, leaning forward. "You don't need to be. I'm fine, really. It was just an accident."

"Okay."

"Let's talk about something else," Kurt said. He reached up, watching himself in the video feed as he adjusted his bangs. "What's going on at Dalton?"

* * *

Forty minutes later, after finally saying goodnight to Kurt, Blaine found himself standing outside David and Wes' dorm room. He knocked once before pushing the door open. "You guys busy?"

"Nope," David said.

"Bored out of our minds," Wes said, lying on his bed and tossing a mini-basketball against the wall. "What's up?"

"It's Kurt." Blaine pulled out a desk chair, straddling it backwards and resting his chin on his arms.

Wes sat up. "You didn't break up, did you? 'Cos I don't know where any gay strip clubs are to help you forget about him."

Blaine and David both turned to stare at him. Wes shrugged. "Um, no," Blaine said. "I think someone is hurting him. He had this huge bruise and all he would say is that he walked into a door."

"A door?" David asked, raising an eyebrow. "That's a bit…"

"I know." Blaine sighed. "I don't know what to do about it though."

"Well," Wes said. "There's only one thing to do." Blaine turned to look at him. Wes pointed at him with the basketball. "You drive yourself over to Lima and defend your boy."

"I don't think he wants defending."

"Doesn't matter," Wes said. "You do it anyway. Go on, get going."

"We'll cover for you," David said.

Which was how Blaine found himself sneaking out that evening and making the two hour drive to Lima, praying that Kurt would think it was chivalrous and romantic.

Kurt did not think it was chivalrous and romantic. Kurt thought it was annoying and aggravating and lots of other adjectives that he was too angry to think of at the moment.

"What are you _doing_ here?" he demanded when he opened the door to find Blaine on the doorstep at eleven that night.

"I, um…" Blaine rubbed the back of neck. "I was worried about you."

Kurt narrowed his eyes. "Worried?"

"Yes."

"Because…?"

"Um," Blaine said.

"Oh my god," Kurt said. "You think someone is beating me."

"I just—" Blaine started.

"I can't _believe_ you! I told you what happened."

"You said you walked into a door," Blaine argued. "How am I really supposed to believe that?"

"Because I wouldn't lie to you!" Kurt shouted.

"What's going on down here?" Burt demanded, coming up behind Kurt.

Kurt groaned, turning away from the door. "Nothing, Dad."

"Blaine?"

"Um, hi Mr. Hummel." Blaine waved a bit.

"What are you doing here?" Burt asked.

"I was just—"

"He just wanted to make sure you're not beating me. You're not, are you Dad?" Kurt said, crossing his arms and glaring at his boyfriend. Burt looked back and forth between the two boys.

"I wasn't—"

"I'm just gonna leave you two alone," Burt said. "You boys have fun." He patted Kurt's arm before turning around and retreating back up the stairs.

Kurt tilted his head at Blaine, arms still crossed and a glare that he usually only aimed at clothes from Abercrombie on his face. "Are you satisfied that my father's not hitting me now?"

"I never said he was. Honestly, Kurt. Can I at least come inside? It's kind of cold out here." Blaine tried to smile reassuringly.

Kurt finally stepped back and let him in, slamming the door behind him.

Blaine jumped a bit at the noise, but reached out to grab Kurt's arm. "I'm sorry, alright? Can we just talk?"

Kurt kept glaring at him, but didn't move away. "Are you actually going to listen this time?"

"Yes," Blaine said. "Really," he promised.

Kurt led him into the living room. The house was quiet this late in the evening. Kurt sat down on the couch and Blaine settled onto the edge of the armchair across from him. Kurt wasn't looking at him, but Blaine couldn't stop staring at the bruise on Kurt's face. It looked even worse in person, deep purple and blue spread from his temple to his jaw.

"That looks like it hurts," Blaine commented.

Kurt looked up at him. "It does," he admitted.

Blaine bit his lip. "You really walked into a door?"

"Why? Does it look like someone punched me? It's kind of a big bruise to be from a punch, isn't it?"

"I guess."

"I really walked into a door. I didn't see the guy opening it until he'd already hit me with it. Next thing I knew I was on the floor on the other side of the hallway with a headache that turned out to be a concussion. I puked on the nurse's shoes." Blaine winced in sympathy. Kurt leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "I didn't want to tell anyone, 'cos it's kind of embarrassing, so I get why they were mad at me for lying." He frowned, then said quietly, "I didn't lie to you about it though. I don't know why you thought I was."

"It's not that I thought you were _lying_, exactly, it's just that you've done stuff like this before. Someone hurts you or threatens you and you just don't _tell_ anyone about it until you can't hide it anymore. All you ever say is 'I'm fine.'" Blaine sighed. "It makes me worry about you and about what you're not telling me. So when you show up with a bruise like that, saying you got it from walking into a door, of all things—"

"I did get it from walking into a door," Kurt interrupted.

"I know you did," Blaine agreed. "But that's not the point. The point is you'd have said that even you had gotten it from someone punching you."

"No I—"

"Yes, you would've."

Kurt looked down, twisting his fingers together. "I just don't want people to worry."

"We worry more when you don't tell us what's going on, Kurt."

"I tell you stuff."

"You didn't tell me when you were getting death threats," Blaine pointed out.

"Oh, honestly." Kurt rolled his eyes, then winced, bringing a hand up to cradle the right side of his face for a moment. "You act like I haven't already had this conversation with my dad a hundred times. I have. How many times do I have to apologize?"

"You don't have to apologize. Just don't do it anymore. Don't hide stuff."

"I'm _not_," Kurt insisted, crossing his arms.

"Okay then." Blaine sat back.

"Can we just stop?" Kurt asked tiredly. "We're not getting anywhere and it's late and…" He sighed. "Can we stop fighting now?"

"Sorry," Blaine said.

"Me too."

Blaine smiled at him, and Kurt gave him a small smile back. Then he moved to sit next to Blaine on the large recliner, settling in next to him with his head on Blaine's shoulder. Blaine wrapped an arm around Kurt's shoulders, pulling him in closer. Kurt looked up as Blaine leaned down to kiss him.

"You're staying, right?" Kurt asked.

"I guess. It's already nearly midnight." Blaine said, nodding.

"Good." Kurt tugged an afghan off the arm of the chair over their laps and curled into Blaine more. "I guess at least something good came out of this then." Blaine raised an eyebrow. "I got to see you," Kurt explained.

"Oh." Blaine smiled. He pressed a kiss to Kurt's forehead, then a lighter kiss to the bruise on Kurt's temple. "All better, right?"

"All better."


End file.
